


Not Forgiven

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Offscreen Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:53:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gabriel feels a petty victory in every dried up scale that he sees flake off from the abuse. Open, abscessed sores are left weeping in their place."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Forgiven

**Author's Note:**

> This was written/set during Season Three when Sylar believed himself to be a Petrelli.

Gabriel stands in the shadows as the gurney rolls by. He's not hidden from sight; the orderlies can see him but they don't acknowledge him. Mohinder is too much in pain to notice him if no one reacts to his presence. On days like today, Gabriel prefers observation to participation and the nurses know better than to question him.

Mohinder is wheeled into the cell. Gabriel stands at the two-way glass and watches as Mohinder's broken body is hooked up to the machines that will keep him alive. Mohinder's leg is twisted awkwardly, at an angle his knee shouldn't be able to bend to. The cotton sheet that covers him is smeared with blood and the translucent, viscous pus that seeps from his infected pores. He's covered to his chin, but seeing Mohinder's face alone is enough to let Gabriel extrapolate how the rest of him must have fared. His skin is already swelling, darkened a deep, bruising purple that yellows around the edges. The scales that curl around Mohinder's cheekbones and skim the corners of his jaw, once a bright, iridescent green that glimmered under even the harsh fluorescent lights of his cell, have grown dull and lacklustre as the weeks of torment draw on.

Gabriel feels a petty victory in every dried up scale that he sees flake off from the abuse. Open, abscessed sores are left weeping in their place.

Mohinder's cheeks are sunken from weeks of malnutrition. It's his own fault. Gabriel knows from the security footage that the hunger strike has been Mohinder's pointless, bitter rebellion. Mohinder will tire of it soon enough once the force feeding begins. The nurses won't be gentle, Gabriel won't allow it. They'll break Mohinder's teeth and leave violent gauges down his throat where the feeding tubes have been shoved roughly in. Eating is surely preferable to choking on one's own blood and bile. Besides, it's plain to see that Mohinder can't endure starvation. The enhancements that he has administered to himself have sped up his metabolism. His body is already beginning to eat itself in desperation.

Gabriel knows the testing must have been trying today. When he sees an orderly inject a vial of his own regenerative blood into the crook of Mohinder's elbow, Gabriel clucks his tongue. Poetic, he supposes, that it is _his_ blood that will heal the wounds that have been inflicted at _his_ command. But how disappointing then, that it has come to this. He had thought Mohinder's new super powered body would be more than capable of coping with the tortures that he has devised. It seems a shame to finally, after so many months of careful experimentation, reach the limit of what Mohinder can take.

Still, with Gabriel's own blood in a limitless supply, there's no reason they can't kill Mohinder next time. And the next time, and the next. Gabriel doesn't usually bother to supervise the testing; not after the first few weeks when the thrill of hearing Mohinder scream began to pall with repetition. But he could make an exception to hear Mohinder's final breath, his every final breath.

The medical staff shuffle out. The door is securely locked behind them. Gabriel is left alone, watching, as Mohinder's body heals.

The cuts close and the bruises fade. Mohinder's lower leg seems to jump of its own accord and snap back into place. The cracked scales that line his forearms glitter as they renew themselves. Mohinder groans as his eyes open.

The room is soundproofed, sealed in its entirety once the door is locked. The glass that Gabriel peers through is nothing but a mirror to Mohinder but still Mohinder stares. He doesn't need to see to know that Gabriel is there; always there.

Gabriel leans against the glass as Mohinder stands. He lumbers towards the shower. He's more agile now; quicker and stronger too but he lacks the grace that Gabriel still remembers. The slenderness of his hips has vanished beneath bulky muscle. The almost too-narrow waist that Sylar had held so delicately for fear of bruising was broader now, even when half-emaciated.

But Mohinder has never been fragile. Not then and certainly not now. So why, Gabriel wonders, why has this come to pass? He had thought Mohinder far too intelligent to gamble with his life like this.

_Why?_ Gabriel's breath fogs the glass and he realises that he has spoken aloud.

There are no privacy screens in Level Five and Mohinder has long since given up attempting to cover himself, refusing to cower away from the prying eyes he knows are there. Mohinder is far too proud for that, even after all the indignities Gabriel has thought to put him through.

The water that swirls around the drain is a thick, rusty slurry of dried blood and the secretions of Mohinder's skin. Mohinder cleans himself methodically from crown to ankles, twice over until his skin is reddened from the water and the scrubbing. The shower pulses over him and Gabriel knows that he will stand, motionless under the spray until the pressure flags and the water slows to a trickle.

Mohinder turns his back to the glass. His shoulders and thighs are tense, Gabriel feels his hackles raise, suddenly not knowing what to expect. There have been escape attempts before. Mohinder is more likely to hurt himself in the process than he is to succeed but that has dangers too. If Mohinder puts himself in mortal danger with only Gabriel there for rescue or relief, Gabriel isn't sure what it is he'll do. There's a part of him, the part that remembers Montana, the part that spurred him on from Mexico, which would want to do the merciful thing and let Mohinder die. But Mohinder, the real Mohinder, has long since been dead and this Kafkaesque doppelganger, soulless, mindless, and violent, left as an empty shell in his place.

Death is too merciful for such a creature. Or at least a death that Gabriel cannot reverse to inflict again and again in more and more inventively painful ways.

But the bid for freedom doesn't come. Mohinder doesn't fling himself at the glass or the door. He doesn't climb the walls and crawl the ceiling, searching for vents years ago blocked up to avoid escape. Instead, the tension in his back begins to ease. He spreads his legs and his head falls forward and only then does Gabriel notice the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of Mohinder's shoulder.

Gabriel raps his knuckles against the glass but Mohinder ignores him. He knocks again, louder and more forcefully. Mohinder's pace falters, then starts again at double time. Gabriel turns away. It gives him no pleasure to see Mohinder like this.

Hot water has been Gabriel's last concession to the man that he had known. In the morning, he will shut off the valve.


End file.
